"As many of you as were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves
with Christ. There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave
or free, there is no longer male and female; for all of you are one in
Christ Jesus. And if you belong to Christ, then you are Abraham's
offspring, heirs according to the promise." Galatians 3:27-29 (NRSV)

I want to thank you for the
privilege of being with you this weekend, of sharing some of my thoughts on the
full incorporation of transgender people into the life of the church—on the
implications of that incorporation not only for trans people but also for the
church as a whole. I’ve shared
several stories that have taken place at the borders of the church, some even
at the borders of retreat circles much like the one in which we’ve been
gathered this weekend. These
moments have pointed toward a certain paradox that being a trans person in the
life of the church has caused me to notice. On the one hand, the margins of church and world can be tenuous,
sometimes dangerous spaces. On the
other hand, in some ways these borders can be strangely holy, spaces in which
God’s transforming presence can be palpable. This paradox prompts me to think about a broader question: how can the church
rediscover its vocation at the margins, to not simply “do charity” there but to
reclaim its mission there—to combat pernicious patterns of “othering” wherever
it may happen while claiming a certain “other” orientation as a feature of its
own life?

In our gospel passage, Jesus speaks
of the existence of “other sheep,” sheep that as of yet “do not belong to this
fold.” The Good Shepherd declares,
“I must bring them also, and they will listen to my voice” (John 10:16). In a number of ways, we have explored
how trans people have been in a sense “other sheep”-- other to or “other-ed” by
church and by world. We have
pondered and prayed about how trans “others” might be drawn more freely and
fully into the life of the church, how the gifts of trans people might be
honored for all that they can and already do contribute. Along the way we celebrated the breaking
good news of TransLutherans, an affinity group within Lutherans Concerned/North America, formed “to broaden our advocacy for more
widespread and effective transgender welcome and inclusion in the Church, as
well as for advancing the work of seeking justice for all transgender
people." These conversations
opened up further dimensions of becoming “one flock.”

In fact, our churches have been on
this journey of discovery for some time now. One particularly powerful voice in this process from my own
denomination is the late Reverend Paul Washington (whose obituary can be found
here),
rector of Philadelphia’s Church of the Advocate from 1962-1987. He spoke of his ministry as one of
outreach to and uplift of “other sheep”– indeed, his 1994 autobiography is
entitled Other Sheep I Have. As an exhibit on the Episcopal Church Archives website puts it,
Washington’s “church became a beacon of liberation for those [he] referred to
as the ‘other sheep’: blacks, the poor, the dispossessed, the oppressed, women,
and gays.” In 1964 Washington’s
parish hosted the first National Black Power Convention; in 1970 it hosted the
National Convention of the Black Panthers Party; and in 1974 it hosted the ordination
of the “the Philadelphia Eleven,” the first women to become priests in The
Episcopal Church. Washington was
also the mentor of Barbara Clementine Harris who in 1989 became a Suffragan (or
assistant) Bishop in my diocese, the Episcopal Diocese of Massachusetts, becoming
in the process the first woman bishop in the Anglican Communion, and very much
an advocate of “other sheep” in her own right.

The ministries of Rev. Washington
and Bishop Harris, of groups like LCNA and IntegrityUSA, TransLutherans and TransEpiscopal, point to the various, unfolding ways in which our churches
engage this process. They also
suggest that there will not come a day– not in this life – when the incorporation
of the “other” into the “one flock” will be over and done with, a day in which
we can all sigh with relief and sit back in our chairs, knowing that we -- a
“we” of the “one flock”-- have checked off every box. I further do not believe there is any way to circumvent or
transcend this process— we cannot jump to “all” language without grappling with
specific instances of “othering” along the way. It is an ongoing, sometimes disruptive process, the kind of realized-eschatological
birth to which Rev. Washington referred when he introduced the opening hymn of
the Philadelphia ordinations, “Come, Labor On”: “what is one to do when the democratic process, the
political dynamics, and the legal guidelines are out of step with the Divine
Imperative which says ‘Now is the time?’” (quoted in Carter Heyward’s A Priest Forever, 86; summarized in Alla
Bozarth Campbell’s Womanpriest,
129-130)

Thus one question our conversations
this weekend have circled around is how to imagine, how to conceive theologically
of our growth into “one flock,” how to see our undoing of “othering” as
integral to that growth. Neither
Episcopalians nor Lutherans tend to think of ourselves as the “one true
church.” It isn’t simply that our
denominations are in full communion with one another (which we have been since
2001 see this article). It is that our growth within the body
of Christ is accomplished by God, not by us. If I may presume to “speak Lutheran,” grace finally does the
job, not “works.” But, if I may
presume to “speak Anglican,” we also participate
in that divine process. And, to crib Paul, that process is eschatological—we are “changed from glory into glory”
(to quote Wesley, speaking Paul!) in a way that lodges us in the already and
the not yet. In other words, we
Christians are called to strive toward holy connection – with God and with one
another-- even as we trust that God will bring this work to completion. Crucial to our striving, here and now, is
identifying, naming those of us who have been and are being “othered” in the
life of the church and of the world.
We are called to help make audible the voice of the Good Shepherd both
to the “othered” and the “othering,” that the power of alienation might be undermined.

And if there is any doubt how
important this undoing work is, we need only point to a horrific event that
took place across the country during our retreat: a transgender woman, a woman of color, named Brandy Martell, was murdered in
Oakland, California on Saturday night in a crime that community members suspect was motivated by hate.

As we strive to help undo such devastating
dehumanization, as we seek to amplify the voice of the Good Shepherd, we would
do well to take up afresh Jesus’ own marginal ministry. And in so doing we might also remember the
marginality of the church, it own “otherness” in its earliest days. One of the oldest images we have of the
crucifixion is the so-called “Alexemenos graffito.” Etched into a wall near the Palatine Hill in Rome, a human
figure with a donkey head on a cross, flanked by an apparently worshipping figure,
is inscribed “Alexander worships his God.” The notion that a people could worship as God one who was
degraded by death on a cross was ridiculous in a Roman imperial context in
which an effective Messiah would, after all, come along and with great might
overturn the powers that be.

This ancient insight takes us to the
very heart of the power of the cross.
This image conveys how good news can be a skandalon, a stumbling block, foolishness (1 Cor 1:23)—sheer
madness to one who expects a straight-forward story of overturning one sort of
power with a yet greater form of it.
But we preach Christ crucified and risen, the power of One who poured himself
into our midst, became in a sense an emblem of stigma, became other in order to transform otherness into belonging, to
draw us into this pattern of metamorphosis and make us its agents. As we take up that agency, we must
remember from whence we came, must remember our otherness – ancient and
contemporary – and in so remembering rediscover our border location as
Christians. For we are a people
living in the already and the not yet, a people in the world and yet not wholly
of it, a people with an ancient propensity for turning the world upside down.

This is a journey that does not end
in this life. It ends at the feet
of the God who made us, the one around whom we sing and dance together in
eternity. But between now and
then—in this space-time of already and not yet-- we remember and live into this
ancient identity, indeed this baptismal mission. We remember the process of our incorporation into the wider
flock, we remember that weare “Other Sheep,” a people oriented to
the margin, inviting “other others” into this holy terrain, this sacred journey.

2 comments:

I spent a year at a parish church in the Episcopal Diocese of Fort Worth. The rector continually gave me problems for being a transwoman. I began writing letters and emails to rememdy the situation. Eventually, I changed parishes and ran into the same problem. I finally came to the conclusion that the diocese was too conservative and quit. A few people were very acrimonious about my leaving. I finally left the Episcopal Church because I was continually hurt. I gave up. ---Teresa Cross

I am now in a new diocese in a new state. I left behind the transphobia of Fort Worth and am now in Arizona where the clergy are much more understanding, welcoming and affirming. I shook the dust off my feet of the places I tread in the old place. This year I am getting surgeries in the new state and looks like I may be getting married too. I have been back in the fold of the Episcopal Church where I belong. Ironically it was three female clergy in FW that gave me all my problems! -- Teresa Cross

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